


Cesare Deve Morire: Bull & Lion

by superreyes



Series: Cesare Deve Morire [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, The Borgias
Genre: ASOIAF/The Borgias, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 13:53:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superreyes/pseuds/superreyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part One. Cesare Borgia, son of the Lord of Kingsgrave, has been told his whole life that he was meant for the septs, perhaps becoming High Septon someday; a life he doesn't want. Relocating to King's Landing with his volatile brother, Cesare befriends the Crown Prince and soon, his betrothed, Sansa Stark, who reminds him of a girl he cherished back home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cesare Deve Morire: Bull & Lion

**Author's Note:**

> The characters are aged up like they were on the TV version, and some scenes were borrowed from the show. Not quite sure how many parts/chapters there will be—probably at least four! In future parts, though, there will be more violence, so just a heads up. In a general sense, Lucrezia is of an age with Robb & Margaery, Cesare is just a few years older.
> 
> **Important:** "Cesare deve morire" means "Caesar must die" and was the name of an Italian film by Paolo and Vittorio Taviani. Obviously, I didn't come up with the title on my own, but was just inspired by it! Also important, Kingsgrave is the seat of House Borgia (in canon it's the seat of House Manwoody) in this fic. I'm planning on explaining the history of their house more throughout this series.

 

_\--_

_287 AL_

“Honor thy father,” said the septa, “honor thy mother,” she chanted, fashioning braids out of Lucrezia’s golden hair. There was a clacking against the wall, and then another to mimic it. Lucrezia was kicking her feet in her chair, watching her brothers in the mirror, bigger than her but not very big at all. Juan was small, wooden sword just as heavy as Cesare’s, and his clacks were never quite as loud as his brother’s, despite their ages. “Honor thy—for the sake of every god, will you two boys quit smacking those things about? They should be in the armory, not a lady’s room,” the septa shouted, hands falling to Lucrezia’s shoulders.

Giggling, Juan ran first, leaving Cesare behind with his play sword. The maester appeared in the doorway like an old, grey shadow, letting Juan slip past him. Cesare was his target, and so he would not escape. The boy always thought that their maester had too much authority in his nine years. “Maester,” he said through his teeth. Politely.

“Cesare,” he said, in such a scolding tone that the little boy flinched. “You should _not_ be playing with those. They’re not yours to toy with.”

“All boys should learn to fight,” he countered, fighting the urge to glare.

“Unless they are to be septons or maesters.”

He looked through the mirror; his sister was watching him, unmoving and equally silent. She was only four, but her eyes made him calm, and so he said nothing.

 

\--

_291 AL_

“Mother said you’re leaving,” Lucrezia appeared around the corner, dainty fingers clasping the edge. She was a little woman, not a child, or so it seemed to him, and she was a bright as the sun that shined through his windows in the morning—only Lucrezia, he liked. Cesare stopped for her, though he was supposed to meet their father now.

“I’m going to King’s Landing with Juan for a while. I’ll be back soon.” He took her hand in his. Her eighth nameday was in three days, and he would be leaving one before.

Lucrezia hugged him tightly, with all the strength she had in her body. He kissed her hair and told her to be good, though not too good or else she would be very bored. At that, she made the sweetest sound; she laughed.

“Be nice,” she said, with her cheek pressed against the velvet of his tunic.

“Dear little sister,” he kissed her hair again. “I am always nice.”

 

 

\--

 

_293 AL_

There was a time when he was alone with his father, Lord of Kingsgrave, somewhere between visits to Juan in King’s Landing. “My dear son, you will succeed where I have failed. Someday I know you will have great power. Perhaps you will become High Septon.”

Cesare was fourteen. He remembered now, what year it was. “I want to be a knight, Father.”

“Now, now. You weren’t born for that life—”

“What about the Faith Militant?”

“Cesare . . . that has not existed for many years.”

“Perhaps it could,” Cesare suggested. He leaned against his father’s desk. “I’ve been reading the recovered texts of our ancestors, Father. The ones in Mid-Valyrian.”

Rodrigo sat back in his chair; the mighty chair, that Cesare and Lucrezia had always pictured as a throne when they were small. Lucrezia—well, she was still small, but the illusion had faded. Their father was no more a king than Cesare or Juan. Especially Juan, though one day Juan would have that chair, and Cesare would not. He didn’t care so much for being lord of any holdfast. But he didn’t care for the idea of being born into something he had never wanted; being told what steps to take and which path was his own. There was something better for him out there, and if he could not find it, he would have to make it himself. “Have you? And what did you find?”

“Many interesting things, you could say.”

“And they sparked an idea in you, did they?”

“They did, Father.”

“And so what would you do? Would you start again an order of the Faith Militant for your own purposes? You’re only a boy,” Rodrigo remarked.

His son dropped his head for a moment. On his right ring finger, there was an heirloom shining at him, catching the light pouring in from the window in its amethyst body. The trees outside held two cardinals, singing. Cesare grinned at his father. “I will not be just a boy for much longer, though. We are constantly striving for glory, aren’t we? Isn’t that who we _are_?”

Rodrigo let out a deep sigh and knitted his fingers together, folded on top of his desk. He leaned forward, looking his son in the eyes. “We are Borgias, my son.”

 

 

\--

 

The boy Joffrey was eight years old; a little mischievous, brat of a prince, but with an face angelic enough to make some people believe that there was nothing wrong with him. Even at the age of fourteen, pushing fifteen, Cesare knew that there something. There had to be a problem; Joffrey Baratheon’s eyes, they were greener than the trees in the courtyard they played in, and his hair shined a little too brightly. He was too golden to be good.

Once, Juan beat him in a mock fight on a hot afternoon, with wooden swords the master of arms handed over. The prince screamed and kicked, lashing out at Juan, beating him furiously in the arm with his practice sword, so hard that Juan had cried out and stumbled to the ground. Cesare had never seen his brother so confused and frightened; and at first, he had laughed, mocked Juan for being so afraid of a child. Ser Arys Oakheart had to pull Joffrey away; had to lead him back to his mother to calm him down. The worst Cesare could imagine was a scolding from the King or Queen, but no harm came to them. Juan was still knighted, and Cesare remembered to be wary of the young prince.

It would be better to befriend him than not know him; it would be safer that way for everyone in his family. An eight-year-old boy should not have been so frightening.

 

 

\--

 

_298 AL_

“It is good to see you again!” Joffrey’s hand extended forward, and they grasped each other’s forearms in their reunion. It had been almost two years since Cesare had been in King’s Landing, and he had missed it.

He hadn’t missed Joffrey’s mad smile, the strange twinkle in those Lannister eyes, but he had missed the politics of the city, the heat, and the intensity. There was corruption here, and somehow that breathed life and excitement into Cesare Borgia; he knew it was perverse of him to think so. Being a friend to Joffrey had its benefits, and it was rare to be viewed as a friend of the prince’s. Joffrey had followers, attendants, and subjects—not friends. Cesare was _nearly_ an exception.

“Where is your brother? I wish to challenge him to another duel,” the prince said slyly.

“He’s at home, but I’m certain he will come to see you soon,” Cesare said with a smile. “I hear you have brought the North back with you.”

Joffrey’s own grin was unsettling, and for a second it seemed he had scowled instead. “Indeed I have. I’ll bring her to you, wait here.” In a flash, the prince disappeared, quick steps echoing down the walls of the Red Keep.

Cesare climbed the steps onto the elevated hall and leaned over the edge of the wide, open window. The ivy clinging to the castle was bright and full of life, as if the whole of nature was rejoicing in Joffrey’s betrothal to the northern girl, or their return. Cesare laughed quietly into the breeze and shook his head. Nature did not celebrate boys as awful as Joffrey. What did it say about Cesare, then, that he allowed the prince to call him a friend? That Cesare did the same?

It wasn’t long before he heard returning footsteps. Half expecting some dark-haired, chilling beauty, Cesare braced himself, yet he was still caught off guard. She was an autumn girl, not made of ice. She was smiling, hair pinned up as if to show off the gold lion pendant around her slim neck. Cesare held his hands behind his back, and bowed his head in respect. The girl was trailing a bit behind him, but he had her arm in his grasp.

“Cesare, I want you to meet my betrothed, the lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell,” Joffrey drew the girl close to him, holding her hand as though he were a gentleman. Cesare was always amused at how easily Joffrey Baratheon could put on the mask of the gracious prince; he was equally disturbed, if not more.

He had heard of Sansa Stark before. The Starks were the Wardens of the North; an important house. Yet this girl was more Tully, with auburn hair he’d heard of, in plaits—she could have easily passed for a southern lady. But there was something strange about her; something alien and inherently northern about her through the veil, through the smoke and haze and tricks of King’s Landing. The red hair gave him warmth, as did the color in her cheeks, but her eyes were winter. He took her hand and kissed it. “Lady Sansa,” he said.

“My lord,” she took back her hand and curtsied. Joffrey’s half smile was ever-present, almost prideful. He thinks of her as a prize, he thought with disgust, though he smiled and met her eyes. Lady Sansa was young, but already so lovely. Joffrey was to be married to a beautiful girl. She would be his queen, and Cesare older and still unmarried. They would have princes and princesses, and Cesare would be praying in the septs until the end of time if things went his father’s way.

They were friends, but Joffrey had a loose interpretation of the word ‘friend.’ As did Cesare Borgia.

There was a light in this girl, and Cesare had seen something like it before, though it was shaped anew. “How do you like the capital, my lady?” he asked her.

“It is a _beautiful_ city,” she smiled. He liked it. “Prince Joffrey and his family have been wonderful hosts.”

“Hosts?” Joffrey took her arm. “This is your home now, my lady.”

Sansa blushed and looked down. Cesare averted his eyes, knowing how Joffrey liked to keep things to himself. He would spare himself the accusation of staring too long at a future queen.

“Are you planning on fighting in the the Hand’s tourney, Cesare?” Joffrey questioned, recalling his attention from the birds that had landed on the window sill.

There was too much stress in the sigh he released. “I’m afraid my father wouldn’t like it. And, I must admit, to his joy, I am still not a knight.”

“Your father doesn’t want you to be a knight?” Sansa asked, terribly confused.

He shook his head. “My lord father would prefer me in the septs.”

“Lord Rodrigo wants our dear friend Cesare to become High Septon, or perhaps Grand Maester, isn’t that correct?”

“Right, my lord,” said Cesare.

“But you _could_ be a knight,” said Sansa. “Prince Joffrey told me you are an excellent fighter. Surely you could still take part in the melee if you wished. Is that right, my prince?” she asked him tentatively.

“Of course he could! If your father doesn’t like it, I will have _my_ father speak with him,” Joffrey smiled. Sansa didn’t look right next to him, Cesare thought, but he knew better not to stare at the Prince’s favorite things, be it a lovely lady or not. _She’s a person, not an accessory to his crown,_ he bit his lip. _But my mind is in places it shouldn’t be_.

“Thank you,” he said, after a moment. “I would like that.”

“Good! First, we’ll have you knighted, as soon as possible,” Joffrey linked his arm with Sansa’s. She was beaming at him. The look that Joffrey gave her set Cesare on edge, but he followed them anyway.

There was an innocence in this girl that worried him; her heart would be eaten in the capital if she had no one to watch over her. It was strange how Cesare felt himself willing to slip into the role, recalling the memories of Lucrezia he had been pressing down since her wedding day. Lucrezia had been lucky; she’d married a gallant Tyrell over in the Reach. Sansa Stark was marrying a crude hybrid of a lion and a stag, buried beneath velvet red and gold. His words to her were sweet, but Cesare coud smell the venom.

 

 

\--

 

The septons were walking about the Sept of Baelor that morning as Cesare was out, their robes dragging in the dust of the streets. He made a point of visiting this huge monument at the top of Visenya’s Hill. Juan was in some whorehouse in the city, and Cesare did not rejoice in spending time with his brother anyhow; he came to the city to be separate from the family. He only wished that Lucrezia were his companion instead.

That night, Joffrey had promised to knight him, or perhaps his uncle Jaime would do it instead. It was what he wanted and yet, he felt as though he was being deceptive. Well, he was. He was blatantly disobeying his father’s wishes.

Staring at this magnificent dome, the embodiment of the power of the Seven on earth in such a dirty, unholy city, was unsettling. It was also calming. The septons began to pray, out in the open, and Cesare kept his face still, telling himself not to frown or think of his father. This was not the life meant for him, and so he would not have to face it, if he didn't want it. He touched the sword holstered on his hip and took a deep breath, taking in the heat and stink of King’s Landing, though up on Visenya’s Hill, the world began to lose its foul stench. There was another presence hanging in the air, another sort of corruption that was not as close to the gods as wished they were. He started to walk back to the Red Keep, hands folded over his chest. Coming up here was a mistake.

Cesare thought of his sister again, and then, out of nowhere, another face emerged.

 

 

\--

 

She jumped a little as he took a seat next to her at the tourney grounds. The sunlight caught her red hair marvelously; today it was running past her shoulders, unbraided except two pulled to the back of head like a little crown. “My lord. I thought you were competing,” she said, surprised.

“I decided not to risk it. Prince Joffrey didn’t quite like my decision at first, but I can be rather persuasive. He insisted on knighting me anyway,” he replied. “You look lovely today.”

Sansa blushed, fiddling with the lavender roses at the neck of her dress. “Thank you, ser.”

“Besides, I’m not one for jousting. I’m terrible at it; might get myself killed, and my father would never forgive me for that, of course,” he said with a light chuckle. Sansa struggled to reply. “I’m much better at racing and fighting.”

“Racing?”

Cesare nodded. “Back at Kingsgrave, we hold races all the time; horse races, all around the city. Perhaps after you and Joffrey are married, you could come visit, and we could hold races in your honor. My parents would surely be honored to host a future queen.”

She beamed at the thought. Oh, how this girl loved her knights and their feats of strength. “That would be wonderful!” She would love the jousting. And so he left her to it, remaining in his place on her right, her father Lord Stark on her left; the two of them barely spoke, but when Ser Loras Tyrell was faced with Gregor Clegane, the young lady grabbed her father’s arm in worry. Cesare couldn’t explain for the life of him the feeling that ran through his system when he heard her concern, her sweet voice, her innocence.

“He’s going to die!” Sansa cried softly, to her father alone. Cesare heard her. Lord Eddard comforted her, and Cesare found that he wanted to reach over and touch the girl’s hand giving her words of his own that might ease her anxiety. He bit his tongue and watched as the Knight of the Flowers unseated the Mountain that Rides from his horse, erupting into a scene that would eclipse any show for the rest of the day. Sansa had nearly clung to his arm in fright when the Mountain attempted to smash in Loras Tyrell’s face with his sword.

The next match was between Loras and Cesare’s own brother. Juan was going to be a pain to deal with at home if he lost to a Tyrell. Juan had shouted a few choice words about Loras once, in the privacy of their home, and Cesare would hate for a repeat—especially in a public place, when their sister was recently wed to his brother. As Juan’s name was announced, Sansa turned to face Cesare again.

“Borgia? Is he your kin?” she asked sweetly.

“My brother Juan, older, though not by much,” he replied. “He rides well, but I fear Ser Loras rides better. I may have to deal with a storm tonight.”

Sansa frowned, but even her frown remained pretty. He patted her arm and smiled briefly before the horn sounded and they returned their attention to the scene in front of them. Cesare quickly pulled his hand away again. As he feared, Juan lost. Sansa made an astounding effort to say she hoped Juan was alright, despite not knowing him. Cesare assured her that his brother was stubbornly durable.

There seemed to be some tension between Sansa and the prince, for at the feast that night, she stiffened when he and Cesare came to sit by her, Joffrey between them. The tension was soon gone, though Cesare was curious. Joffrey had said nothing of it.

Cesare was quite aware that his ‘affections’ for the girl were thin, transparent, on the surface only.

Soon enough, there was dancing as well as feasting, and Joffrey was the first to rise. Like a gentleman, he Sansa’s hand in his and led her with his other hand on her hip. Sansa Stark would not stop smiling the entire night, after that moment. Cesare glanced to his right, where the girl had been; in her place, or next to it, was the steward’s daughter.

Her name was Jeyne, Jeyne Poole. She may not have been as radiant as Sansa, but she was beautiful, and in the moonlight and candles, her brown hair was shining splendidly. Perhaps it was the wine. Cesare managed to recall that she was beautiful even when he was not drinking. At that thought, Cesare rose to his feet and turned toward the young girl. “Lady,” he held out his hand. “Would you honor me with a dance?”

Jeyne was startled, but she seemed happy enough and she took his hand, letting him lead her near Joffrey and Sansa. “They are truly something, aren’t they?” Jeyne breathed, keeping her voice down.

“They are a wonder to behold.”

“She’s so happy,” Jeyne chirped. “I’m happy _for_ her.”

Cesare did his best to grin. “As am I.” The steward’s daughter’s cheeks were slightly flushed.

“Sansa told me your brother was in the ranks today, my lord,” said the girl. “Juan Borgia? He rode well!”

“Thank you, I will let him know. He may ride well, but he loses quite badly. Better bred for racing than jousting.” He tried not to let the tension seep through his voice. Cesare was tired of talking about his brother, and how he rides well, among all the other things he does ‘well.’

“He seemed gracious enough, my lord,” Jeyne commented.

Cesare smiled at her again, but his eyes traveled away from her face. The girl his gaze fell on was as bright as the sun on this fine evening, her laughter filling the air. Joffrey’s mask of courtesy and affection startled him. Sansa was captivated by such a mask, and Cesare felt himself lost, though continuing perfectly in the dance, with his hand on Jeyne’s slim waist; her soft fingers in his hand. Jeyne, too, had stars in her eyes, but they were brown, not blue.

After the dancing had passed, and everyone’s bellies were full of wine and food, Cesare bid farewell the to young lady Jeyne, to his ‘friend’ Joffrey, and to Sansa, who was next to her sleeping septa. As he turned his back, he heard Joffrey offer to escort her back to the Red Keep, but when Cesare set upon his horse to return to his estate, he saw the girl with the Hound, getting into one of the carts that would take them through the King’s Gate. A protectiveness began to bite at him from the inside, but he could not follow them. They were gone as soon as they had appeared in the flash of torchlight, and so Cesare went home to his irritable brother.

 

 

\--

 

“How was the feast, my dear brother?” Juan slurred. There was a flagon of wine at the table, next to where Juan’s feet were propped up. Cesare spared himself the trouble it would cause and avoided rolling his eyes.

“You are aware that they call you the prince’s dog,” said Juan, a light smirk on his face as he peeled an apple with his dagger. “Are you?”

Cesare sat across the table and picked a pear. “That’s the _Hound_ , brother. I think you’re confused. Do you even know who I am right now?”

“No, I mean you,” he used the dagger to point, arm wavering. “It’s _your_ nickname, too.”

“If you’re trying to rouse my anger, Juan, it’s not working,” said Cesare, moving back from the table. “I am in the service of the royal family, as a friend, and nothing more.” The chair scraped against the stone floor of their home as he lightly kicked it back.

“I was only letting you know,” said Juan. “Sleep well, young pup,” But there it was, the smugness in his voice. Cesare glared down the hall as he exited. He did not know exactly where he was planning on going, but he wanted to get away. The last thing he wanted was Juan trying to set him off like he always did.

The courtyard was empty and dark, with the moon shining right into it. It seemed it was always empty when their family was not visiting, and their visits were not as frequent as Cesare wished they had been. He wanted Lucrezia to come see him; he wanted her to bring her husband and his flowery family. Perhaps he could tolerate them. Would they bring some joy into his life? He wanted to see his mother, too.

Sometimes it took all the strength he could muster not to throttle his brother; it was thoughts of his mother and father that kept him from lashing out, though Juan was never one for self control.

They were family. He had to remember that.

 

 

\--

 

The two girls were laughing underneath their bedcovers, their feet tangled together to keep warm. Although Sansa and Jeyne had been tired after the feast and all the dancing, they could hardly sleep once they had changed into their nightgowns and bid goodnight to their septa, fathers, and Arya.

“He’s so handsome,” Jeyne sighed.

“Joffrey?”

“Him, too, of course.”

“ . . . You mean Cesare?”

Jeyne smiled. “Lord Beric is better, but Cesare—oh, Sansa, did you see us dancing together?” the girl hesitated to go on. Her eyes widened a little. “Oh, of course not. You were dancing with your prince,” she said with a giggle.

Sansa blushed underneath the covers, the blanket and the cover of night. “Yes, I was with Prince Joffrey. And you danced with Cesare.”

“Was the Prince kind to you?” Jeyne asked. “I saw you smiling, and laughing.”

“Yes, he was kind . . . so kind. He kissed my cheek when the dancing was done, and you saw how he fed me from his own plate. He showed me how to eat snails. I have never eaten snails before. They were tasty.”

Jeyne laughed again. “He was so sweet to you.”

“And Cesare?”

“Cesare . . . is handsome, yes,” Jeyne replied. “But I think he would have rather danced with you, Sansa.”

“Me? But, I’m supposed to marry _Joffrey_. You’re so silly, Jeyne.”

Her friend was giggling again. “Such a lucky girl you are, to have two handsome boys looking at you!”

But Sansa was feeling too hot underneath the blankets, her face was burning. “But he’s the prince’s friend! He wouldn’t . . .”

“It’s so romantic,” Jeyne let out a quiet gasp, as though a shock had rippled through her. “What if he’s in love with you?”

“He is not! He’s the prince’s friend, he can’t be.”

There was a small silence between them, before Jeyne spoke again. “It would be so romantic.”

“It would be sad . . .” Sansa sighed. “He’s not.”

“You know, he actually reminds me a little bit of someone we both know,” Jeyne looked at her sideways. They both emerged from underneath the blankets and snuggled closer to each other.

“Who?”

“Robb,” said Jeyne.

“Robb? And you think he could be in _love_ with me? Jeyne—”

“They’re not _exactly_ the same!” she defended. “I was watching Cesare last night, during the feast and when we were dancing. He kept _looking_ at you. And when Joffrey took your hand, he had that look on his face—the same one Robb made at the feast back home in Winterfell.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow. “What face?”

“Well you must have been too busy looking at the Prince, then, too” Jeyne dismissed it. “But it was there.” She was smiling in the shadowed room, the moonlight on their covered legs almost hiding their faces from each other. Sansa nudged Jeyne’s shoulder and leaned back on her pillow.

“We should sleep,” said Sansa. “Tomorrow will be another beautiful day.” Both girls drifted to sleep, content, and Sansa dreamt of a boy that was not her betrothed. She would blame Jeyne in the morning.

 

 

\--

 

Joffrey had Cesare sitting near him at the tourney the next day. Looking around at the crowd as Cesare took a seat that had been brought out for him by a servingwoman, Cesare began to understand what Juan had said that night. Drunk he may have been, but he was at least a little bit right.

He sat with his legs crossed, watching the jousts with impassive eyes. He overheard bets, winnings and losings and cheerful shouts from young girls applauding their favorite knights. Usually, it was Loras Tyrell. Out of the corner of his eye he could find Sansa Stark’s red hair, and Jeyne Poole’s chestnut braids; the younger Stark girl in between them, bouncing with excitement.

“What do you think of her?” asked Joffrey, as if he knew Cesare was looking. But when Cesare turned toward the prince, he had his eyes fixated on the knights before them.

“What do I think of who?”

Joffrey let out a single laugh, soft, but on edge. “You know. Sansa.”

“I think she’s . . . kind, she’ll make a loyal wife, and a good queen. But who’s to say? I’ve only known her a few weeks now. It’s a good alliance your father is making. The North is vast and strong. But, well, a tourney isn’t the place to discuss marriage politics.”

“You’re right,” the prince shifted in his seat, arms folded across his chest. The coronet around his brow glinted, a sharp light in Cesare’s eye. “I want to ask a favor of you.”

“Ask me. I am but a loyal and humble servant.”

“I need you to watch her. Be her guard; keep an eye on her for me. There’s one thing you left out when you were talking about how kind she is. She is also beautiful, even I will admit that.”

Cesare felt goosebumps raise underneath his tunic, though the day was hot.

“She loves these things, these knights, songs, flowers. Make certain that no one would seek to take my northern prize. If she’s to be my bride, I must make certain she’s mine and mine alone. Do you understand me, Cesare?”

“I understand.”

Coming to King’s Landing was supposed to be an escape from a duty he didn’t want, yet here he was, walking straight into another one he could hardly smother a grimace for. Once again, he glanced at the girl in question, the Lady Sansa as she and her friend linked arms and followed after her father, preparing to move on to the archery rounds. They were giggling, and her little sister Arya looked back, as though searching for someone. Cesare met eyes with the little girl, only a few years younger than her sister. She must have been of an age with Gioffre. Arya Stark gave him a strange look, eyebrow raised in question, and hurried after her older sister, clinging to her sleeve.

He watched them bicker for a moment, but by then he thought to avert his eyes. He didn’t want to spy, on either of them, and yet he was falling into position so well. Yes, it was this life at King’s Landing, the politics and terrible folk, that he had come here for. He knew it, but he did not think it would go this way. He did not think he would find people so pure amidst it all.

The least he could do was protect Sansa Stark from the pit of lions she had been dropped into.

 


End file.
